Books with title The autobiography of a super-tramp

LUNA THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER CATI am an Australian Cat who has had a lot of experiences in my 4 years. In my Autobiography with 25 color pictures and over 5000 words you can admire the picture of me and my brother when we were kittens, and the other pictures of me and the people and animals in my life. Then you can meet my friends like Michael, the local mob and the kind farmer, hate my enemies like the Big Fat Ugly Dog, the Bad Man and the Satanic Cat and laugh at the strange ideas of the enigmatic Bad Boy. Michael says that if anyone buys my books the money will pay for some nice cat food. In this book I meet my famous father. You can share both my joy and triumphs and grieve with me at the tragic events of my young life.This book was written before I became a detective helping the police catch criminals. I hope young children will enjoy my autobiography.

At the end of the 19th Century W.H.Davies hustled his way across America, working when he could, begging and stealing when he couldn't. He saw life on the breadline. He was beaten up in New Orleans, thrown into prison in Michigan and was present at lynching's in Tennessee, truly a diarist of the nether side of the American dream. After travelling with some of the most interesting and adventurous characters, an accident forced him to return to a similar poverty filled world back in England. "The incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. I have read it through from beginning to end, and would have read more of it had there been any more to read." George Bernard Shaw.

HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp.I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies' autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book. These pudent pages are unstained with the frightful language, the debased dialect, of the fictitious proletarians of Mr. Rudyard Kipling and other genteel writers. In them the patrons of the casual ward and the dosshouse argue with the decorum of Socrates, and narrate in the style of Tacitus. They have that pleasant combination of childish freshness with scrupulous literary conscientiousness only possible to people for whom speech, spoken or written, but especially written, is still a feat to be admired and shewn off for its own sake. Not for the life of me could I capture that boyish charm and combine it with the savoir vivre of an experienced man of the world, much less of an experienced tramp. The innocence of the author's manner and the perfection of his delicacy is such, that you might read his book aloud in an almshouse without shocking the squeamishness of old age. As for the young, nothing shocks the young. The immorality of the matter is stupendous; but it is purely an industrial immorality. As to the sort of immorality that is most dreaded by schoolmistresses and duennas, there is not a word in the book to suggest that tramps know even what it means. On the contrary, I can quite believe that the author would die of shame if he were asked to write such books as Adam Bede or David Copperfield.

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Get on the road with this predecessor to gonzo journalism as the Welshman Davies heads off for a life of adventure wandering the expanses of 19th century America, hopping trains and generally vagranting his way around. Following an accident which must have been horrific (but which he lightly skips over in the text) Davies returned to the UK, finding plenty of trouble but eventually succeeding with what must have been one of the world's first viral marketing campaigns.Included are many hints and tips on being a late-1800s super tramp, which are fascinating for both detail of a life far removed from our own and their cleverness. One such cute recommendation is the suggestion to sell showlaces for a living and the many advantages it brings a vagrant. After all these adventures the author eventually settled down with a wife, becoming a successful poet and author, so this is certainly a tale with a happy ending.W. H. Davies has had a solid effect on modern culture, with the title of this book inspiring the name of the band Supertramp and his famous couplet known to nearly all: "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?" For fans of Wales, American rail, Davies' poetry or just fascinated by the hobo lifestyle this book is a must read. For the rest it is a great story well told.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com

This is an autobiography that describes what it was like to be a tramp in the late 19th century in North America. From the preface: "I HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp. I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies’ autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book.

This is an autobiography that describes what it was like to be a tramp in the late 19th century in North America. From the preface: "I HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp. I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies’ autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book. These pudent pages are unstained with the frightful language, the debased dialect, of the fictitious proletarians of Mr. Rudyard Kipling and other genteel writers. In them the patrons of the casual ward and the doss house argue with the decorum of Socrates, and narrate in the style of Tacitus. They have that pleasant combination of childish freshness with scrupulous literary conscientiousness only possible to people for whom speech, spoken or written, but especially written, is still a feat to be admired and shewn off for its own sake. Not for the life of me could I capture that boyish charm and combine it with the savoir vivre of an experienced man of the world, much less of an experienced tramp. The innocence of the author’s manner and the perfection of his delicacy is such, that you might read his book aloud in an almshouse without shocking the squeamishness of old age. As for the young, nothing shocks the young."